Left at the Mango Tree (15 page)

When Abigail Davies turned seventeen, her mother told her she best look for a job. If Abigail insisted on not marrying (as if the poor girl had any say in the matter), then the least she could do was to contribute a few rainbow bills for all those bolts of cloth. If she did well for herself, they might add some pigeons or a hen to their onion stew. The rest of the Davies family, which continued to grow in number, seconded the idea, already imagining on their tongues the tiny bones they would gnaw and suck dry. The very next morning Abigail walked to town in search of work.

She was wearing a yellow dress with a rounded white collar that plunged toward her waist and struggled, as all her collars did, to hold her in. The heads of the passers-by, both men and women
alike, turned to study her as their paths crossed, their mouths emitting “my-words” and “well-I-nevers,” though the men’s for one reason and the women’s for quite another.

When Abigail reached the center of town she stopped in front of the Island Post and wondered how best to look for the job that her mother told her she best look for. She turned to her right and saw a taxi stand where three drivers waited in line for a passenger to pass. She turned again and saw the distant church, its tower scornfully fixed on her sinful collar. She turned once more and saw a Ministry, whose mint green exterior was spattered with the spittle of what she assumed must be ministers’ chewing tobacco on its threshold. She turned and turned, her eyes ready to spot any sign that there might be paid work to be had, until she came full circle and found herself staring once more at the Island Post.

The widow Corinna, who had exited the post office with one eye on the change in her palm and one on the street, where a pickpocket might be lurking (though Oh had no pickpockets, for the islanders swindled each other openly), found her gaze drawn to the centrifuge of Abigail’s rotating décolletage. She clapped both hands to her mouth, to hold in the “well-I-nevers,” and sent the change in her palm reeling noisily to the ground. Abigail rushed to her aid, crawling on hand and knee to pick up the scattering coins and straining her struggling collar even further. The widow Corinna stood, gobsmacked, her gaze glued to Abigail’s chest, until the girl had collected all the wayward coins and risen to her feet.

“My word,” was all she could muster, as she held out her empty palm to reclaim her money.

“Did I get it all?” Abigail asked her. “Have I missed any?” She started to bend over again, but the widow Corinna grabbed her arm and stopped her.

“Thank you, my dear,” Corinna said. “I think you’ve done far more than you should have already. Spinning about like that in the middle of the street! What were you doing?”

Abigail explained to Corinna about her father’s fishing boats and her mother’s frocks and the onion stew her family ate for dinner every day. She told her about the bolts of cloth and the fishermen’s whiskey, and the pigeon bones the rest of the Davies family wanted to gnaw and suck. In short, she said, she needed a job and had literally been looking around for one, when Corinna spotted her and dropped her change.

The widow was touched by Abigail’s story and by her efforts to contribute to the family coffers. Perhaps Abigail ought to try Mr. Rousse, the bookkeeper, Corinna suggested. She didn’t see how he could possibly keep his accounts straight, as distracted as he always appeared to be, whether pinching melons at the market or smoking on the barber’s porch before his daily shave. “A man like that is certain to need the help of a sensible girl,” she said. And sent Abigail on her way.

Mr. Rousse had never given much thought to hiring an assistant. He got on fine by himself, despite how distracted Corinna might have considered him. The way a man pinched a melon said nothing about how balanced his accounts were. Most of the time, Mr. Rousse’s were in perfect order. But Abigail’s pleas and her pouty collar were more than Mr. Rousse could resist and he offered to hire her on a trial basis. He showed her where the accounting books were stored and taught her how they were numbered and catalogued. And he sharpened her a brand new pencil.

Behind the desk he sat close by her side and told her about debits and credits, brushing his arm across her bosom as he stretched to indicate the columns for noting the ones and the others.

“Debits go out, credits come in,” he said. “Two sides to every account. The trick is to make them balance.” He showed her a long series of examples, brushing his arm against her again, every time he moved his pencil from the left-hand column to the right and back, until he was certain she understood clearly the nature of the help she could provide him. The whole morning she worked, and the afternoon, marking the registers, balancing credits and debits, outs and ins. She had a knack for keeping track of both sides at once.

But at the end of the day, Mr. Rousse terminated her trial employment, for he really did get on fine by himself and had no use for the help of a sensible girl, certainly not full time. Just a taste of Abigail’s spicy disposition was all that he had wanted. He paid her for the day’s work, but his payment, like the fishermen’s before it, fattened only her. Not the rest of the Davies family, which continued to grow in number.

The next time Abigail tried to find a job, she didn’t waste her time turning around in the center of town. Instead, she stuck an announcement on the glass pane of the wooden door that opened into the Savings Bank. Though there were never enough rainbow bills to go around on Oh, some of the islanders did have enough of them to warrant their storage within the safe, thick walls of the island’s only financial institution. And since those islanders liked to check on their rainbow bills daily, Abigail’s announcement was sure to be spotted. In neat black letters it simply declared AVAILABLE FOR HIRE beneath a picture of Abigail in a pale blue blouse that accented her dark complexion and accentuated her daunting cleavage. Abigail put up her sign at eight o’clock in the morning, before the Savings Bank opened for business.

At nine, the widow Corinna, who didn’t have any rainbow bills to check on in the Bank but who passed it every morning on
her way to church, caught sight of the sign and its boasting blue bodice. She clapped both hands to her mouth, to hold in the “well-I-nevers,” and sent the rosary she held in her palm reeling noisily to the ground. Abigail, who had been loitering nearby, ready to present herself should some islander show interest in her sign, rushed to the widow’s aid, crawling on the ground to pick up the scattering prayer beads that had sprung free of their cord. The widow Corinna watched her, her gaze again glued to Abigail’s chest, until the girl had collected all the wayward beads and risen to her feet.

“My word,” was all Corinna could muster as she held out her empty palm to reclaim her holy bits. Then she remembered her manners and added, “Thank you my dear, very kind of you. But can you tell me the meaning of this shameful sign?”

Abigail was puzzled, for she saw nothing shameful about her advertisement. But she ignored the affront and reminded the widow Corinna about the boats and the frocks and the onion stew, the cloth, the whiskey, and the pigeon bones. She added to her tale the episode of Mr. Rousse the bookkeeper, telling Corinna about the movements of his debits and his credits. In short, she said, she still needed a job and had posted a sign to say so.

The widow was again touched by Abigail’s story and by her efforts to contribute to her growing family’s coffers. Perhaps Abigail ought to try Mr. Kipfer, the painter, Corinna suggested. She didn’t see how he could possibly handle a big job alone, for he was a very small man. “A man like that is sure to need the help of a sensible girl,” she said. And sent Abigail on her way.

If Mr. Rousse had never given much thought to hiring an assistant, Mr. Kipfer certainly never had. He got on very fine by himself, despite how small Corinna considered him to be, for he had an extensive array of ladders with which he adjusted his height
at will. But Abigail’s pleas and her boasting bodice were more than Mr. Kipfer could resist and he offered to hire her on a trial basis. He showed her his rollers and taught her how to mix and stir the paint. Then he handed her her very own paintbrush.

Before following her up on the ladder, he helped her into a pair of fresh canvas overalls, which he buttoned up himself. Then standing behind her, one rung below, he stretched past her, spattering her white canvas clothes with streaks of sea green from his brush, which landed on the wall in front of them in dramatic and demonstrative strokes.

“Up and down, nice and even, you see?” he said. “Otherwise you won’t get good coverage of what’s underneath.” He remained one rung below her as he worked, spattering her canvas and stroking the wall, until he was certain she understood clearly the nature of the help she could provide him. The whole morning she worked, and the afternoon, climbing the ladder, mixing paint, applying herself to nice and even strokes. She had a knack for covering up what lay underneath.

But at the end of the day, Mr. Kipfer terminated her trial employment, for he really did get on very fine by himself and had no use for the help of a sensible girl, certainly not full time. Just a taste of Abigail’s spicy disposition was all that he had wanted. He paid her for the day’s work, but his payment, like the fishermen’s and the bookkeeper’s before it, fattened only her. Not the rest of the Davies family, which was growing in number now at least once a year.

The next time Abigail tried to find a job, she distributed flyers with her name and address, on market day, when all of Oh would pass through town. She didn’t include her picture on them, for that would have been too costly, and she sensed that the picture had
something (she wasn’t sure what) to do with the widow Corinna’s “shameful” classification of her announcement on the Savings Bank door. She positioned herself near the entrance to the market’s main square, offering to each passer-by one of her fluttering pages. But the market was a noisy place, with its usual flapping batiks and clanking balances, and Abigail’s “pardon-me’s” and “may-I-give-you-one-of-my-flyers-please’s” were lost in the windy din. The islanders, intent on their shopping and haggling, could neither hear her nor see her, for in the visual assault that was the marketplace, even Abigail’s cumbersome chest was camouflaged among the coconuts, calabash, and onions.

Frustrated, the girl, who had long become a woman, stepped up onto the two-foot-high stone wall that encased the marketplace. To the wall’s height she added another foot or so to her position by jumping up into the air. The combined effect of gravity, Abigail’s propulsions, and the paucity of her polka-dotted dress, shifted the wind in her favor and her flyers were suddenly in great demand.

But, alas, the widow Corinna, who could not seem to escape the taunting of Abigail’s top half, chose just then to pass by. She clapped both hands to her mouth, to hold in the “well-I-nevers,” and sent the just-acquired cloves and peppercorns she held in her palm reeling to the ground. Abigail, who witnessed Corinna’s clumsiness from the vantage point above the wall, felt compelled to relinquish her post and rushed to the helpful widow’s aid, crawling on the ground to pick up her purchases. The widow Corinna watched her, her gaze yet again glued to Abigail’s chest, until the girl had collected all the wayward spices and risen to her feet.

“My word,” was all Corinna could muster as she held out her empty palm to reclaim her cloves and corns. Then she remembered her manners and added, “Thank you my dear, very kind of
you. But jumping about like that in the middle of the market! What were you doing?”

Abigail was puzzled again. She considered herself rather clever for outwitting the noisy wind and she didn’t know why Corinna should be so bothered by her behavior. But she ignored the remark (Corinna had always been a bit touchy) and again reminded the old woman about the frocks and onions and the growing family who still couldn’t afford any pigeons, adding to her tale, right after the part about Mr. Rousse the bookkeeper, the episode of Mr. Kipfer the painter and his nice and even strokes. In short, she said, she still needed a job and had jumped up and down to let the other islanders know it.

The widow was yet again touched by Abigail’s story and her efforts. Perhaps she ought to try Mr. Floroseda, the plumber, Corinna suggested. She didn’t see how he could keep all the island’s pipes clean on his own, for he moved way too slowly when he biked from job to job, stopping often to fill his nose with the scents of whatever flowers he spotted on the side of the road. “A man like that is sure to need the help of a sensible girl,” she said. And sent Abigail on her way.

If Mr. Rousse and Mr. Kipfer had never given much thought to hiring an assistant, Mr. Floroseda certainly never had either. He got on very very fine by himself, despite how slow Corinna considered him to be, for the way a man rode a bicycle said little about his pipes. And most of the time, Mr. Floroseda’s were in perfect order. But Abigail’s pleas and her paltry polka-dots were more than Mr. Floroseda could resist and he offered to hire her on a trial basis. He taught her about plungers and spigots and snakes, about faucets and washers and drains. And he gave her a kit with a handle and some tools.

In the dark damp of the crawlspace under Mrs. Hobbs’ wash basin, he showed her how to position herself to accommodate the curves in the pipes she came across. Stretched out on the floor alongside her, he brushed against her with every twist of his spanner.

“Not too loose, not too tight,” he said. “Otherwise you’ll crack your pipe.” He maneuvered his arm around her, working the spanner back and forth, until he was certain she understood clearly the nature of the help she could provide him. The whole morning she worked, and the afternoon, accommodating pipes and silencing the troublesome drip-drip of leaky faucets. She had a knack for keeping things quiet.

But at the end of the day, Mr. Floroseda terminated her trial employment, for he really did get on very, very fine by himself and had no use for the help of a sensible girl, certainly not full time. Just a taste of Abigail’s spicy disposition was all that he had wanted. He paid her for the day’s work, but his payment, like the fishermen’s, the bookkeeper’s, and the painter’s before it, fattened only her. Not the rest of the Davies family, which grew in number yet again.